


Coffee Moste Evile

by wynnebat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Auror Harry Potter, Crack, M/M, Scheming Barista Tom Riddle, Theft, Timeline Mashup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 08:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12361755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnebat/pseuds/wynnebat
Summary: After graduating Hogwarts, Tom finds work at Borgin & Burke's, where he diligently sells the darkest of arts(-themed coffee and pastries).





	Coffee Moste Evile

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a [prompt by anonymous](https://greenmornings.tumblr.com/post/166188734381/coffee-shop-au-for-tomarry-maybe-one-of-them-is-a) on tumblr. Complete, unrepentant ridiculousness.

Capheus Borgin was a short, balding wizard with an almost-visible aura of something that was either dark magic or simply general sleaziness. He seemed like just the type of man to own a shop called Coffee Moste Evile. It was a coffee shop located at #2 Knockturn Alley, one that in the right circles was rumored to be a front for illegal dark objects dealings. However, as Tom Riddle had come to realize over his two-month employment as the shop's main barista, Borgin did unfortunately care deeply about his shop's success.

"Tom! What are you doing back here?" The man in question called out, stomping down the staircase that separated the first floor shop from Borgin's second and third floor living quarters. Borgin was rarely found without a glare, but today it was especially fierce.

"My apologies," Tom said, standing up from his resting place on the second to last stair. "I was just taking a small break. Avery is swapping in for me while I rest my feet."

Borgin harrumphed at him, but seemed to accept the excuse. "I've been meaning to have words with you. You're attracting people to Knockturn Alley. People who most certainly don't belong here. I've had gaggles of light witches from Diagon Alley come in here asking for you on your day off."

"Sir, it really isn't me who's attracting them," Tom was quick to say. "They may especially enjoy the way I make their coffee, but it's the coffee they truly come here for. It's the best coffee in London."

"Of course it is, my own recipe, why I labored for decades..."

And thus Borgin was off again on a retelling of his path to opening up his very own coffee shop. Tom nodded at all the right places and considered whether drowning Borgin in his own coffee would be tipping the scales into too ironic. Two months here and he felt as though he was slowly but surely going insane. What a horrible childhood hadn't quite managed to accomplish, Borgin would, leaving Tom permanently crazy and furious. A well-worn fantasy played inside his head, this one of lighting the shop on fire, when he caught the tail-end of Borgin's speech.

"…frankly Burke would be ashamed of what the shop has come to these days," Borgin said, shaking his head. "Well, I think your break has lasted more than long enough, boy. Off to work!"

"Yes, sir," Tom said, refraining from checking his watch. It couldn't have been more than five minutes of rest, but that of course wasn't Borgin's concern. He really did deserve Tom skimming from his accounts these past two months.

He turned around and walked back through the doors to hell, where Avery shot him a relieved look. "Finally, bro. I'm shit at making drinks."

"You should wait a minute, Borgin's down there," Tom told him as he took over Avery's current order. "And pop in some more Sinnamon Rolls, they seem popular today."

"I'll make some more Licorice Bone Necklaces, too. A whole group of brats came through and bought the lot of them. What kinds of parents would let them into Knockturn Alley like that?"

"Avery, we are literally a meter into the Alley," Tom groaned. "We're a hipster coffee shop for rebellious light witches and wizards. It's time to just accept it as our reality."

"You're turning your back on your own kind," Avery replied, shaking his head with a theatrical sigh. "Can't you see that a shop selling Blood Muffins and Dementor Danishes is really the darkest of the dark?"

And with that, he left Tom to suffer the rest of the evening crowd. Tom forced himself to turn to the next customer in line, a red-haired girl a few years younger than him, and say, "Welcome to Borgin and Burke's Coffee. Our selection of drinks and pastries will meet your darkest desires."

Suffice to say, Tom despised the speech, but the last time Borgin had caught him leaving it out, Tom had been forced to endure a thirty minute lecture on responsibility and the youth of today.

The girl blushed a up to the tips of her ears at his words. "You could definitely meet my darkest desires."

By now, Tom had heard every single come-on and pun on the phrase known to wizardkind. It had become tiring at the end of his first day. Now, it was somewhere between murderous rage-inducing and apathetic, depending on his mood. "I'd be happy to make your coffee-related desires come true. What would you like to order?"

"A small Moderately Evil Coffee with cream and a Painful Last Word Strudel, please," the girl said, looking somewhat dejected. Good—it seemed as though she was good at catching a hint. The persistent ones were much more irritating.

"Of course," Tom replied. "Take a seat and I'll levitate your order to you once it's finished."

"A dark levitation charm?"

"A regular one."

Tom started the coffee off before warming the pastry and writing _please, I'll do anything,_ in icing on the top. A chime sounded when the coffee had finished being ground, brewed, and set to the perfect temperature, all in under a minute. In the time he'd been working here, Tom had designed an entirely new interconnected system of spells to create the blasted coffee instead of relying on doing each and every part of the process by hand (and thus taking so much time to make the coffee that any sane person used to simply give up waiting for it), but of course Borgin had no good words to say about that. He'd even huffed at the whole thing and called it lazy. Tom Riddle, former Head Boy, star student—lazy? The nerve. With a wave of Tom's wand, the cream settled into the shape of a skull on top of the coffee. Out of pure boredom, Tom added a snake coming out of its mouth. Snakes really did make everything look more dark arts-y.

Upon levitating it to the corner seat the girl had chosen, Tom turned to the next customer in line and recited the usual spiel.

"You sound like you're in pain every time you say that," said the customer, one of Tom's least disliked regulars. Harry Potter had graduated in the same year as Tom, though they hadn't said more than a few words to each other over the course of their seven years at Hogwarts. Harry had kept mostly to the Gryffindors, Tom to the Slytherins. Their interests, Quidditch and idle dreams of world domination, hadn't coincided much. Had Tom not made a point of remembering the name of everyone he met, he would've forgotten Harry's completely. At least right up until a week into Tom's employment at Coffee Moste Evile, when Harry had started showing up nearly every other day.

"I'm mostly numb to the pain by now," Tom replied, sighing deeply. "Mostly. Tell me about your darkest desires."

Harry didn't meet his eye for a moment, which Tom found deeply amusing. He always enjoyed knowing when people found him attractive, since attraction was a fantastic way to hold power over people, but a lot of the time, overt displays of attraction got on his nerves. Harry was more subtle about it, never hitting on Tom directly, whether it was out of shyness or being smart enough to realize that the last thing Tom wanted was to date a customer.

"I'll have an Avada Krempita and my usual coffee, please," Harry replied. "Although my darkest desire is really to strangle my boss."

"I sympathize deeply," Tom said, his tone too heartfelt, but it wasn't as though Borgin was there with them. "Is yours still shucking his paperwork onto you?"

"Yeah. I've just barely managed to convince him that it isn't alright for him to order me to forge his signature. Barely. We caught a polyjuice ring—well, by we I mean him and his partner, and we first year trainees got to be ordered around by the forensics crew afterward—and I'm positive he was considering asking me to polyjuice into him for meetings."

"That level of laziness is almost commendable," Tom said, finishing off the coffee. "It's a wonder he remembers to breathe."

"Maybe one day he won't," Harry said, hopefully.

Even though the man was a light wizard through and through, and didn't actually mean for his vented words to become reality, Harry was entertaining in that passionate way of his. Tom could easily see him in a few years as a full-fledged auror, knocking down doors and saving kittens. When Tom handed him his order, he noticed Harry's hands still bore slowly healing, rather deep cuts from a few days ago. His group of trainees had been sent to a investigate a disturbance at the Magical Menagerie, their mentors happily allowing them to deal with the grunt work.

"Thanks," Harry said, always polite.

Before Harry could pull his hands away, Tom stroked his thumb over one of Harry's fingers. "You should get these healed. If they scar, they'll be harder to get rid of."

"Didn't want to bother St. Mungo's with something so simple and I'm shit at healing charms," Harry replied, shrugging. "Besides, I figure I'll just take Mad-Eye's example and look like a badass."

"You only look like you own a vicious cat," Tom replied, rolling his eyes. "But it's your hands to do with as you wish. It's not as though you need a full and easy range of motion in order to write legibly or cast complicated spells."

"Stop being right all the time, it's unseemly," Harry sniffed, taking his order and leaving for his usual spot.

The after-work crowd had already come and gone, and the evening customers were usually few. Tom assumed it had something to do with their better instincts finally kicking in and letting them know that going into Knockturn Alley after dark wasn't the best idea. In between customers, Tom spelled the counter clean, checked the record book to make sure the numbers aligned as they should (although not especially honestly), and was just about to wander over to Harry's area of the shop when he heard a noise from behind him.

"Psst," came from behind the kitchen door, which was partly open.

Tom sighed, deeply and strenuously, and stepped through to the other side of the shop, shutting the door behind himself.

Borgin was standing much too close to him. "Is it that auror again? What in Merlin's name is he doing here every blasted day?"

"Drinking coffee," Tom replied. "Eating an Avada Krempita. He seems to be finding it not to his taste." Next time, Tom would have to steer him back towards the Inferified Croissants. Harry was doing a thorough job of slowly going through every single item on the menu, but Tom remembered him liking the savory pastries most.

"He could be staking us out," Borgin hissed. His hand was clenched tightly around his wand. Good lord, what exactly did the man think he could do?

"He's been here every other day for seven weeks," Tom tried. "If he were staking us out he's not very subtle about it."

"So you do think he's staking us out."

"No, I really don't. Maybe his patrol route goes past us. Or maybe he's taking a break. Or maybe he's a rogue auror trying to douse his dark arts addiction with a coffee addiction."

Tom refrained from saying, _or he has a crush on your barista_ , since he didn't want to see if Borgin would attempt to pimp him out for more information. It would be a shame to actually have to murder the man before Tom could get what he wanted from him. He was also not sure what action he wanted to take with the Gryffindor. Tom was a creature of solitude and avoidance of intimacy, but somehow Harry had so far managed to not irritate him out of his mind. It was remarkable. A frighteningly large part of Tom's mind wanted to study the phenomenon more closely.

At the last option, Borgin caught on to the fact that Tom wasn't taking him seriously, although he hadn't quite caught on to the fact that Tom had never for a second taken him seriously in the first place. "This isn't a laughing matter!"

"Of course not, I'd never joke about that kind of thing. But the shop is just barely inside Diagon Alley anyway," Tom said. "Wouldn't it be easier to just accept the Diagon Alley crowd, aurors and light witches and all?" Since really, their main customer base was that same Diagon Alley crowd. The Knockturn Alley dark arts practitioners were much a stingier people, and most had a certain distaste for the shop's theme. Borgin had meant for the shop to be a monument to his beloved dark arts, but to his horror the whole thing had been taken ironically. It was a favorite of rebellious Hogwarts students and bored ministry employees. But at the end of the day, on the scale of Borgin's priorities, greed fell just slightly above respectability.

"See here boy, I have been a member of the Knockturn Alley business community for seven decades and I will not have my business slandered by comparing it to those Diagon Alley shams, banning everything and anything and keeping good dark citizens like us oppressed."

"My apologies, I don't know what I could have been thinking," Tom replied, trying his very best to keep the sarcasm at bay. In a short time, he would finally be able to leave this place. Until then, Tom couldn't chance Borgin firing him. "Would you like me to attempt to shoo him out?"

"No, of course not, I can't have people thinking I'm trying to keep aurors from coming in here. Try talking to him again. Play up that coffee shop down the street on Diagon." Borgin looked as though he hated the very idea of sending customers to their competitors, but it seemed he'd deemed the sacrifice worth it.

"I won't let you down," Tom promised, accepting Borgin's pat on his shoulder with the vast amount of patience he'd been forced to develop on this job.

Before he could find a subtle way to leave, someone on the other side of the door yelled, "Excuse me! What's the hold up?"

Borgin waved him off and Tom was almost happy to create an unholy combination of more sugar than coffee for the impatient man. Every so often, he glanced at the clock, counting down the minutes until the end of his shift. When the shop was finally mostly clear of customers, it was Harry who joined him at the counter, bringing his empty cup and plate with him.

"I've been meaning to ask for a while now," Harry said, swallowing and leaning against the counter. For a moment, Tom wondered if this was the time he'd have to tell Harry no, or if he'd find himself saying yes, when Harry said, "Do— is there a Mr. Burke?"

" _What_?"

"Er, the shop, the sign says Borgin and Burke's Coffee Moste Evile, but I've only seen a Mr. Borgin around, not a Mr. Burke. Does he, you know, exist?" Harry looked especially conspiratorial when he added, "Or is he a ghost who haunts this place to make it moster eviler?"

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Is that really something that's been plaguing your thoughts?"

"Um, you know us aurors, we just can't give up when we find a mystery." Harry ruffled his already messy hair, smiling at Tom.

"I hate to break it to you, but Caractacus Burke is Borgin's favorite topic of conversation once he's finished with his litany of faults of the most recent generation," Tom said, stepping closer to his own side of the counter until it was only an arm's length of space that separated them. "The two established an antique shop in 1963—March 16th, I can unfortunately tell you with certainty—but it failed in a couple decades due to auror raids and Burke's gambling debts. Borgin still despises him for the shop's closing to this very day, but they reunite every couple months to drunkenly yell at each other at the Leaky."

"That was a lot less of a mystery than I'd hoped," Harry replied, but his lips were still quirked up in a small smile.

"Things often are," Tom told him. All too often, mysteries were disappointing, dull in their ordinariness. Tom knew this fact well, but his thoughts still lingered on the fact that Harry's eyes really were a lovely shade of green. "Tell me, what did—" _you want to ask me originally, Harry?_

His words were cut off by the slamming of the coffee shop's front door. A whole group of aurors stormed in, their brown trench coats and serious faces signaling their status, and their haste signaling the importance of their mission. While two aurors encouraged the straggling customers to leave, the one in front approached Tom and Harry.

"Auror Williamson?" Harry asked, looking completely shocked. It appeared he hadn't known a thing, which made things simpler for Tom. He wouldn't have enjoyed the thought of Harry keeping this from him, even if the whole situation was hardly a shock to Tom. "What are you doing here?"

"What are _you_ doing here?" Williamson said instead.

"Drinking coffee?" Harry asked more than said. "It's the best coffee in London."

"Thank you," Tom said, rather smugly.

Williamson looked between them like he couldn't decide who he disliked more. To Harry, he said, "I'll deal with you later," and to Tom, "I have a search warrant for the premises. We received a tip that this building held dark artifacts on the second floor."

Tom's eyes widened in shock. "Are you basing this warrant on our creative naming choices? Because if so—"

"Don't be stupid," the auror interrupted. "We had a legitimate tip arrive to our office that Borgin is in possession of a illegal Hand of Glory. The tip said that the room was behind a very powerful set of wards, so I've brought our best men for the job."

"Oh my Merlin," Tom breathed. "That's horrifying."

"Yes, it certainly is. Do you know anything at all about your boss's other line of work?"

"No, I only make the coffee. The closest experience I've had is baking the Hand of Raspberry Glories." He glanced down, and when he met the auror's eyes again, there was moisture in his eyes and the line of his shoulders had sloped downward. "I can't believe it."

"It's always a horrifying experience when good men go dark," Williamson said with a bit more sympathy. "Perhaps your boss hadn't realized what exactly he was in possession of. Son, will you help us apprehend this criminal?"

"Of course. Anything for the ministry," Tom replied, all but fluttering his lashes. "If you'd like, I can knock on his door so that he doesn't escape by apparition?"

"Good man," Williamson said with a nod.

Tom headed upstairs with a whole squad of aurors at his back, trying not to be discomforted by the thought. It wasn't as though he'd committed any serious crimes and the aurors had no reason to suspect him of his less serious ones. They were here for Borgin, as they should be, considering Borgin was hardly a man of high moral quality. Tom did his duty, coaxing Borgin out of his second floor apartment with the promise of a cup of coffee brewed just the way he liked it, and hid his smirk behind a sorrowful look when Williamson hit him with a body-bind as soon as the door opened.

It was incredibly satisfying to see his boss just lying on the floor until Williamson placed anti-apparition and anti-portkey spelled necklaces around his neck, only releasing him afterward to tell him the situation. Apparently, this tip the aurors had received also classified Borgin as a high risk of running. The team of curse-breakers began to dismantle the wards, managing to do in fifteen minutes what Tom hadn't managed in two months of sneaking around. It hurt his pride, but there was something to be said for a group of people who had years of learning and experience behind them. It was a fact of life: if you couldn't do something yourself, have someone else do it for you. Tom hung back while the aurors stormed inside, then shuffled closer, making sure they saw him shuddering in horror at the objects in the room. Poor Borgin, he was going to lose so much money from this raid. While the aurors were distracted by the Hand of Glory, Tom casually made his way toward the far wall, reached behind himself, and slipped a certain locket into the pocket of his robes.

A few moments later, Harry came to stand next to him. Quietly, he said, "You're amazing. I think my boss actually believed you."

"I'm pleased to hear that. I wouldn't want the auror department to think I had anything to do with Borgin's crimes." It was bad enough that Tom's name would be mentioned in the report. He wasn't a suspect and he had made sure to cover his tracks well enough that he shouldn't be accused of being an accomplice, but it was still too close for comfort. When Borgin's apartment was searched, the aurors would find a record of the locket's sale to a foreign witch and that should be the end of it all.

"Or your own?" Harry asked, raising his eyebrow.

Tom stiffened slightly, cursing his body for giving anything away. But when he met Harry's eyes, there wasn't a hint of anger in Harry's gaze. "Are you planning to bring me to justice?"

Harry shrugged. "It didn't look especially dangerous and I don't feel any dark magic coming off it. And believe me I think I've seen every dangerous object in the country by this point. I've also never seen you do anything without a good reason behind it."

Tom supposed he could play the pity card, but found it hard to truly speak of it. "It was my mother's."

They had talked once on a rainy evening about their families. Tom had known the basics of Harry's history beforehand. It had been a thing of pitying gossip years ago; Harry's parents had died shortly after his eleventh birthday, struck down by a close family friend who had gone insane with a descent into dark magic. It had been a sad tale for most and a cautionary tale for Tom. Harry had told him of how he hadn't had to go far for guardianship, with his godfather taking him in before the day was out, but he'd never been able to forget the pain despite his godfather's love. Tom had felt strangely compelled to share his own circumstances, similar as they were. He'd lost his parents at a much earlier age, both Merope and Tom Senior dying before Tom could form any memories of them, and had spent five years in the foster care system before being adopted by a muggle couple. Patrick and Lisa Reynolds hadn't understood him—they couldn't, as muggles—but they were still horribly, infuriatingly kind. Harry had smiled sadly and told him about how he'd broken down when Sirius had given him a top of the line broomstick, unable to deal with the thankfulness and the crushing sadness of the fact that it should have been his dad to do it.

For the most part, Tom had put his ancestry to rest. It still occasionally burned in him that some had impudence to think less of him because his father had been a muggle, but the pain had quieted over the years. His adoptive parents had lived through Tom's lies and heartbreak and every shitty thing he'd done as a child, and they'd still stayed. He disliked muggles as a whole, but it would have been hypocritical to say he hated them when he returned to his adoptive parents for major holidays and for Lisa's birthday. But when Tom had learned that Borgin had in his possession a locket of Merope's that had gone missing during the Riddle estate sale, he had almost thoughtlessly decided he needed to have it. It was infuriatingly sentimental, but Tom had found himself wanting one last piece of the long line of men and women that had led to his birth.

"A family heirloom," Tom eventually said, even if the words couldn't truly describe the magnitude of what the Slytherin locket meant. Meant to the world as a remnant of the founders—and what it meant to himself, personally.

Harry inclined his head, his expression understanding. Tom hadn't shared the details about his past in preparation for this moment, but it had seemed to help.

"You know," Harry added, "I could be bribed into even more silence with some free coffee next time I visit?"

Tom huffed an amused little sound. "Unfortunately, I've been so traumatized by the shocking revelation that my boss is a dark wizard that I've decided to hand in my resignation."

"Ah," Harry said, swallowing. "I'll miss seeing you around. And your coffee."

His objective finally complete, Tom had no reason to see Harry again. He could finally apply to a proper job instead of selling coffee to unappreciative customers.  Before this, Tom had intended to go into the ministry and rise through the ranks until he hit a position of comfortable power, but now he thought perhaps he could put the ministry off for a few more years. Gringotts was seeking new talent for their excavation department and Tom didn't want to turn away the possibility of learning how to properly tear down a good set of wards. He hadn't meant to develop an interest in curse and ward-breaking, but trying to get Borgin's wards down on his own without any proper training had been frustrating and fascinating and harder than anything he'd tried in years.

Tom and Harry could once again become two men who'd graduated in the same class but otherwise didn't know each other well. The thought didn't sit quietly with Tom and he thought he saw the same thing reflected back in Harry's expression.

"I can make you coffee tomorrow morning," Tom decided to say, leaving all care behind once again. "My kitchen isn't as good as the one here, but I think it will do."

Harry's blush should have gotten old by this point, but Tom still found it rather charming. "Can I buy you dinner first?"

"If you must," Tom allowed.

Harry's smile was so pleased that really, Tom had no choice but to kiss it off.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'm also on tumblr as @[crownwithoutstones](https://crownwithoutstones.tumblr.com/).


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